


how deeply are you sleeping (or are you still awake?)

by exhaustedwerewolf



Category: Jessica Jones (TV), Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Basically what if Peter fell into a microsleep while webswinging, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Crisis Carry, Crossover, Exhaustion, Gen, Hero Complex, Hurt Peter Parker, Listen to me he sleeps once in two weeks and passes out a whole bunch of times and I'm sad about it, One Shot, Peter Parker Needs a Break, Post-Devil's Breath Outbreak, Protective Jessica Jones, Sleep Deprivation, Sort Of, Spider-Man PS4 Spoilers, Spidey Sense Fail (Marvel), Swearing, Timeline What Timeline, Unconsciousness, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22492528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhaustedwerewolf/pseuds/exhaustedwerewolf
Summary: Amidst the chaos of the Devil's Breath outbreak, Peter awakes on the concrete, injured, exhausted, and with no memory of falling- but thankfully, he isn't alone.
Relationships: Jessica Jones & Peter Parker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 101





	how deeply are you sleeping (or are you still awake?)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you @awkwardacity not only for reading this over, but for going "What if it was Jessica Jones that found him?" and saving this fic from being a perpetually unfinished series of drafts. You're the true lifesaver here.
> 
> Title is from 'Sky Full of Song' by Florence and the Machine. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading!

The first few seconds are always the worst. You’d think with being Spider-Man, he’d be used to it by now- waking to the ache of fresh bruises, to the itch of a blindfold, to the splash of his body shattering the surface of the Hudson, black water rushing into his mouth. Or to this, to the slow-stirring, drawn-out kind of pain of coming back to himself splayed and broken on the tarmac, the bite of blood in his mouth. The sky is just a dark absence of stars beyond the golden blur of street lamps, distant apartment lights and cold blue helicopter searchlights-

_Oh no._

He jolts up- or tries to- cringing at the answering awful sensation in his ribs and collapsing again. It’s all he can do to choke back what would have been a pathetic cry of pain, and his vision goes white; for a few moments, he can’t think for the pain, processes it only as the remembered sickening crunch of a thousand old broken bones, years and years of blood spattering against concrete and the thud of flesh against brick walls-

No. It’s not something he’s ever quite got used to, no matter what he says, flashing a thumbs up at a concerned civilian or throwing a taunt at a villain- _Come on, is that really the worst you can do_? Pain defies logic like that. It always passes, but you can never quite make yourself believe that it will until it does. 

When it does begin to fade- when he, at least, has a grasp on his own name again and a better feel for which way gravity is pressing him, when he’s taken a few breaths more oxygen than iron- he feels it. Like radioactive tracer-fluid lighting up every vein instantly vivid, so that even the smallest capillary screams out the one word: _DANGER._

A blur of movement at the corner of his eye and he writhes back in shock, failing to scramble to his feet. He finds himself backed up against a wall, panting, one shaking hand raised, fingers instinctively curling into the web-shooter formation, aiming for-

“Oh, absolutely not!” She’s not quiet, but her voice is barely loud enough over the Times-Square-cacophony of searingly bright pain and panic in his own head, in his chest. “Don’t you _dare_.”

He blinks, and her face comes into focus. He doesn’t think he- No, he doesn’t recognise her. Dark hair and darker eyes, smudged makeup, a black leather jacket and a furrowed brow. There’s a cut on her temple, and circles under her eyes, but she at least looks like a normal civilian. And maybe it’s stupid, but he lets his arm thud back to his side in boneless relief, allows his eyes fall shut for just a moment, slumps against the brick to catch his breath. If this is a trap, he thinks, traitorously, _whatever._

For just that moment, he gives up. 

He allows himself a couple of seconds of just his chest heaving and his head tilted back, to feel the roiling of the tangle of nausea and anxiety and exhaustion. And then, reluctantly, instinctively, he opens his eyes again. 

The woman is kneeling, a foot away, maybe. She has her hands half-raised in the “be cool,” gesture, presumably in reaction to her friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man aiming at her, although she looks more pissed than worried she’s about to be webbed to a wall. He feels a little bad, if fuzzily, and then he’s distracted as the neon in his head flares and goes blinding for a couple of seconds. He winces and tries his best to squint past the brightness. 

The memory comes back in shards- the blur of New York’s lights at his fingertips, the shrieking of sirens, the rhythm of his swing, all of it too distant. Too warm on the inside, black nothingness lurking at the edge of his vision, the heaviness of being on autopilot- and just a split second of the fall, skyscrapers awhirl, the breeze buffeting his ears, no recollection of the moment he slipped-

“Uh- Spider-Man?” The woman’s voice brings him back again. With the memory, the panic has mostly died down, leaving him strangely hollow in a mangled sort of way, like the emptiness inside has sharp edges. He forces himself to look around- they’re in a damp, narrow alleyway, holed up behind a dumpster- she must have dragged him here. Hopefully they’re out of sight of any SABLE drones.“Hey. Are you good? About to die on me?” There’s a coarse sort of concern in her voice, and yeah, he should probably feel worse about this, about being pulled to safety by a civilian after basically falling asleep on the job, but he’s mostly just tired, so tired that right at this second he can’t really feel anything else. 

Spider-Man opens his mouth to say something reassuring. Instead, Peter lets out a string of wretched, rasping coughs. When he finally gets them under control, replies;

“Never better,” Those words come out in Peter’s voice, too, hoarse and exhausted and too quiet. He attempts a smile, but he can feel on his face that it’s more grimance than grin. At least he has the mask. “Just don’t take it too personally if I’m not up for a selfie today,” He croaks, “Alright?”

“Thank God.” The woman says, and then bashes her fist into the dumpster with a surprisingly loud _clang_ , making Peter flinch. “ For fuck’s sake, do _not_ do that. I thought-” She cuts herself off, turning a ferocious glare on him. “I’d really prefer not to watch Spider-Man bleed out in an alleyway today, if it’s all the same to you. Holy shit.”

_Oh,_ He thinks, and the memory cuts knifelike through the numbness- his arms wrapped around Aunt May, not so long after Ben _,_ the new fierceness of their grip on one another, as if they are just waiting for the moment when they’re inevitably torn apart- He swallows. _Right._

“Hey,” He says, but it’s weak, almost inaudible, so he says it again. “Hey, I’m good, okay? Didn’t mean to scare you. There's really nothing to worry about, I’m totally fine.” 

As he says it, he feels a trickle of warmth at the corner of his lip, and when he briefly pulls back his mask to wipe it away, the back of his gloves are smeared with darker streaks of red. 

_“Are you?”_

He lies there, and stares at the smear, and it all feels… fake. Like a dream he half-knows is just a dream, in the almost-sleep that swallows him up between the chimes of alarm number one and alarm number _Seriously-Pete-you’re-going-to-be-late-to-the-lab._ It’s so quiet and distant, compared to the roar of gunfire and flame and the shrieking of collapsing metal and the impact of fist after first… God, he’s tired. He’s so tired.

“Spidey? _Hello_?”

She snaps her fingers in front of his face- Peter blinks and forces himself to meet her gaze again. 

“Jesus, can you even swing like this? The entire city is on your tail. You know that, right?”

“I’m Spider-Man,” He laughs, meaning for it to be cocky and reassuringly dismissive, but the sound is toneless to his own ears. “I’ll be fine.”

It must be wholly unconvincing, because she digs her nails into her temples, and takes a long moment to mutter a string of further curses under her breath. 

Peter feels a little bit of _something_ drain away at the realisation that he’s been totally seen through, his grip loosening, his own exhaustion made that little bit more real. _Walk it off,_ he tells himself, but when he tries to move, the pain that surges through him is immense, paralysing. A shuddering gasp escapes him. Possibly he’s broken something, again.

The woman looks on, expression bitter and still kind of annoyed, but her jaw is set. 

“Have you got somewhere- _anywhere-”_ the latter is said with a kind of furious desperation, “to go?” 

The question seeps into him like the chill of rainwater. He thinks first of his apartment, and then of the pile of rent-reminders and eviction notices, the echo of MJ’s door slamming shut, the halls of FEAST crowded with the sick and the terrified, the smell of it, of Devil’s Breath, thick as poisonous smoke- May’s face, determined, but pale and exhausted-

“I’ll-” He begins, but lapses into silence. He finds himself smiling automatically, but of course, she can’t see it- can only hear the break in his voice he isn’t hiding. “I’ll figure something out.”

“How old are you?” She says, bluntly, and he bites his tongue. It’s been a while since someone has asked that while he’s in the suit, and he’s not in the right mindset to casually brush off the question right now. When he doesn’t answer, she turns her eyes skyward.

“I fucking knew it. Of course Jameson’s making his living out of roasting a _kid_.” She says.

“Hey, I’m a college graduate.” Peter protests vainly, but she isn’t listening.

“This is what I get for trying to be nice.” 

“What?” Peter says. She shakes her head, reaching toward him- without thinking, he catches her deftly by the wrist. Her expression turns suddenly cold. 

“Let go.” She says, slow and dangerous, and he does.

“Sorry, sorry.” He swallows. “You surprised me. Been a rough couple of days,” He tries to keep his tone light. “People getting this close to me haven’t exactly…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely, losing his train of thought for a moment. “Haven’t exactly been going in for high-fives.” 

“Oh my god.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re SABLE’s _priority target_.” She makes sarcastic air quotes around the words. “ _You._ ”

“In my defence, I’m not actually sure what it is I’m supposed to have-” He’s interrupted by another sputtering cough, this one a little closer to a retch than he’d prefer. “What it is I’ve done?” 

“I’m shocked. The criminal justice system is just so great and definitely not completely shitty.” She deadpans, startling a hoarse laugh out of him. She responds with a brief, tight-lipped smile, but it fades again quickly. “Look, before I regret this I’m gonna get you somewhere safe so you can sleep this off, or whatever it is you do. Can you stand?”

He nods, and forces himself to shift into a kneeling position, despite every sinew screaming out in protest. He’s about halfway to upright- one hand braced against the wall, every muscle shaking with the effort- when his left leg gives out completely, but before he can hit the ground, he’s caught. 

“Hang onto me.” The woman instructs, and he’s just about conscious enough in the haze of pain and exhaustion to mumble his thanks, although he’s lost track of which direction the ground is in again. With a grunt that sounds more like irritation than exertion, despite his height, she lifts him, and he’s able to fumble his arms around her neck in an effort to help. _Now,_ he feels like a failure- it’s such a blatant inversion, Spider-Man, the rescueé, and he was hoping he wouldn’t be playing this part again so soon after what happened at Ryker’s. Already, he feels his head listing to the side, his gaze going soft- he tightens his hands on her jacket, but it doesn’t abate the sensation of slipping. 

“What’s your name?” He says, dizzily- if she keeps talking to him, maybe he can concentrate on her voice, and besides- he should have asked before. She exhales out of her nose, as if the question is funny.

“Jessica,” She says, starting to walk. “Jessica Jones. Don’t keep trying to talk,” She adds gruffly. “You’ll pass out.” The up-and-down of her gait is a little bit too much, and Peter squeezes his eyes shut against the vertigo.

“Thank you, Jessica Jones.” He mumbles, ignoring her. “’M Spider-Man.” 

She snorts.

“No shit, you’re Spider-Man. You’re kind of a disappointment, you know.”

“Oh.” He says, and is struck with a moment of deja vu, of lying helpless, groping for consciousness after the explosion, ears ringing, choking on ash. “Yeah.” He feels her tense up a little bit, and opens his eyes, worried she’s spotted SABLE agents, or Demons, or Rykers’ inmates- his Spidey senses seems to have shorted themselves out- but she’s looking sideways at him. 

“No, I didn’t mean that- fuck.” Jessica says. “Sorry, I’m kind of an asshole.”

“Don’t think you’re an asshole.” Peter slurs. “Saved my life, probably.”

“Yeah, well don’t jinx it.” She mutters darkly, and he smiles a little, and then stifles a gasp as pain lances through him, writhing uncontrollably in her arms. She curses under her breath, and quickens her pace. 

“Try to keep still.” She says. “I’d call a cab, but- you know. City-wide curfew, sudden and merciless totalitarian authority. I get the quarantine, but is the whole attacking protestors thing really that necessary?”

When he doesn’t answer, she goes on.

“Pretty shitty, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” He whispers, only half-hearing now, not sure what he’s agreeing to. He winces as she turns a corner, jostling him. “Ow.”

“Look- I’ve got you, okay?” She says, and he is wondering why she is telling him this even as he sags in her arms, his eyes rolling back, the last words he hears before slipping into unconsciousness; “Hang on, Spider-Man.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me on tumblr @exhaustedwerewolf- my askbox is always open for requests, or if you just want to chat (especially if it's about Spider-Man PS4!)
> 
> Thank you again for reading!


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